Near the poplar-trees the pioneers had dug their trenches and lighted fires. Across the trenches, on poles of green wood, were slung simmering camp-kettles.
He turned again towards the Château; a regiment of Saxon riders was passing--had just passed--and he could get across now, for the long line had ended and the last Prussian cuirassiers were vanishing over the hill, straight into the blaze of the setting sun.
As he entered the gate, behind him, from the meadow, an infantry band crashed out into a splendid hymn--a hymn in praise of the Most High God, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy.
And the soldiers' hoarse voices chimed in-"Thou, who in the hollow of Thy Hand--"
And the deep drums boomed His praise.